


The Inversion (keep playing)

by Inverse_Midas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, COVID-19, ClappingforCarers, Doom scrolling, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Flashback, Gen, Isolation, John Watson is a Good Friend, Loneliness, Not Canon Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pandemic - Freeform, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Sherlock is a drama queen, The arresting scene, The first lockdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inverse_Midas/pseuds/Inverse_Midas
Summary: "There was no telling yet how far it would go, or how bad it would get. He was only aware of the world slowly closing in on him, being walled in by an invisible enemy whose web reached the whole globe."Sherlock gets angsty and melodramatic on the eve of the first Covid-19 lockdown, comparing his past experiences with the new normal. Until John Watson saves the day and shows him a new direction.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. 25th March, 2020: Closing the Door

The black front door of 221B Baker Street slammed shut with a sense of finality. Perhaps it was caused by the slammer himself, but what other way was there to close the door on a pandemic? After tomorrow, who knew when it would be opened again?

The stench of ethanol filled the corridor, as Sherlock stood still rubbing his sweaty palms together with hand sanitizer. The acrid smell that had become so familiar in the past few weeks stung his nose even through the three layers of his face mask. Sherlock grimaced but tried to count his blessings: at least he had a bottle of the stuff. He picked up the nearly-bursting paper bags from the floor, his last-minute groceries and extra toilet paper from Tesco.

_Not panic buying, John. It's only rational to stock up when faced with a lockdown. And yes, I would have ordered online, if there had been any available delivery times left any time soon._

Before, when John was still here to do things for him, it was easy to avoid shopping. Now Sherlock had to manage it by himself. He had disliked the chore even before the pandemic and resorted to takeaway meals or online shopping whenever possible. The mere idea of a supermarket was an abomination to him: narrow aisles too full of people and smells, a nauseating jumble of noise and choice and data. Today, with the coronavirus giving him a little extra incentive, his shopping spree had bordered on the manic, getting in and out of the store in record time, grabbing the things he thought he might need as fast as he could.

He didn’t dwell on the fact that he had actually _wanted_ to walk there, despite the discomfort it brought. That he was happy to have an excuse to leave home and see other people, to go _anywhere_ while he still could. After the forced lockdown rules that were starting the next day, that was about to become increasingly difficult.

Sherlock dragged the heavy bags up the stairs and entered the empty flat. It had been an exceptionally warm day for March and although it was evening now, he felt overdressed in his coat and scarf. Still, he had been reluctant to leave the house without his full body armour.

In the kitchen, he removed the black cotton mask he had been wearing and took in a few deep breaths. His breathing had been shallow under the mask and he felt a little light-headed. Would he ever get used to wearing those? The first time he had tried on a surgical mask, it had nearly triggered a panic attack. The smell of polypropylene had made him gag, the itchy fabric too close to his sensitive face. But John, in his doctor mode, had insisted that he should try to wear a mask anyway. So he had looked up several types of face masks and ordered them online while they were still available. Learning to tolerate even one of the soft all-cotton masks had required a lot of practice and patience. He had to keep telling himself why he was doing this to make it bearable. But at least he _was_ wearing a mask now. John would be so proud of him. He pulled out a small zip bag from his coat pocket and dropped the vile thing inside.

While washing his hands, Sherlock contemplated the silent flat and the government's recent text alert on his phone.

_Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save lives._

This was where he was supposed to stay put for the unforeseeable future. On his own.

The prospect sent a shiver of trepidation through him.

As he was hanging his Belstaff on the door hook, the sound of approaching sirens pierced the silence. Sherlock walked further into the living room and glanced out of the window. Several ambulances rushed along Baker Street on their way to the nearest hospital, the soundscape of a city steadily going haywire. Their passing lights flashed behind the curtains, painting the room with an ominous blue.

The soft fabric of his cashmere scarf slid through his fingers, as he slowly started to untie it. Sherlock paused, focusing on the sensation. Something about this felt eerily familiar, too. This exact same spot, years ago. The scarf in his hands, the flashing blue lights of the sirens, the escalating sense of dread. As if he was standing on a rug that was about to be pulled from under his feet… again.

Here he was, standing in his living room on the eve of the Covid-19 lockdown, not knowing what was about to happen or how long it would take. Having a vague idea, yes, but not _exactly_. There was no telling yet how far it would go, or how bad it would get. He was only aware of the world slowly closing in on him, being walled in by an invisible enemy whose web reached the whole globe. Not allowed to leave home in order to protect each other. And there was nothing else to do but wait for it to be over.

_Inversion_ , his mind whispered suddenly. Wasn't this a kind of an inversion of what had happened to him before?


	2. 11th June, 2011: Into Battle

**Nine years earlier**

  
  


Sherlock is standing beside his armchair in the middle of the living room (still theirs), listening intently to the voices floating up from the hallway downstairs. Lestrade, Donovan and the other Met officers barge in despite Mrs. Hudson’s fervent protests, wanting to talk to him. 

John, gallant till the bitter end, is already standing on the stairs, trying to block their entry. Sherlock can hear their heated exchange, Mrs. Hudson exclaiming “Manners!” and John angrily questioning Lestrade. 

He knows it’s to no avail. Coming with the warrant they previously lacked, these are the sounds of his imminent arrest. He doesn’t resent Lestrade and the officers for it, they are only doing their job, playing their part. They are all pawns in this game.

This is the last moment just by himself here - alone, like he will be from now on. John and Mrs. Hudson are downstairs, still with him, but he can feel the distance between them growing. 

This is the point of no return, a pivotal event in his game with Moriarty. His life is about to be irrevocably inverted, whether he likes it or not. But Sherlock is not thinking about it now, this is something that will become painfully clear only much later. The blue lights of the sirens keep flashing outside, underlining the melancholy of the moment nevertheless. 

These (he will realize when it's all over and he's looking back) are his final minutes in this flat, in their home. When he leaves Baker Street today, it will be for good. He will never live here with John again. This is the last time Mrs. Hudson sees him alive. The next time he sets foot in this living room, it will be two long years later as a changed man. After this moment, nothing will ever be quite the same. He will never be quite the same. Afterwards, there will be no returning to the old normal. This is the last moment in a world that is still  _ his _ .

This is the moment of in-between, over soon, gone before he knows it. A matter of a few fleeting minutes, no more. But in the bigger scheme of things it's colossal, a momentous rift between  _ home _ and  _ away _ , a bridge separating Before from After. 

Luckily, Sherlock knows none of this yet. If he did, he might give the flat a final scan, to memorize everything he holds dear. But that is hindsight and useless anyway, conferring a sentimental value on inanimate objects. Besides, there is a perfect replica of 221B Baker Street in his Mind Palace already, accurate down to its rooms and residents. There’s not an inch of the flat that he hasn't already mapped and catalogued for future reference, just in case. 

So, the detective just turns and picks up his beloved scarf from the nearby chair. The hand that stretches it straight is definitely not shaking. The world around him may be crumbling but he feels oddly calm, not resisting his fate. He dresses up before Lestrade and his officers come to claim him. Looping his scarf around his neck to be his guard, pulling on his Belstaff to be his armour, turning the collar up for good measure. Into battle. 

Any second now, the handcuffs will be slapped around his waiting wrists and he will be escorted to the police car. John will be furious, of course, but Sherlock will tell him it’s all right. It is because he knows something big is coming. It’s as inevitable as a rising storm and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The tension and the underlying sense of dread have been escalating steadily in the past weeks. Waiting has been the hardest part, feeling the web gradually closing in on him and his chances (like his remaining days) slowly trickling away. But the waiting is coming to an end now. His focus is lazer sharp, his hands steady, his fingers perfectly still. It's finally time for action. 

_ "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play."  _

He told the DI as much on his previous visit to Baker Street and it’s only partly untrue. There’s nothing wrong with playing games per se but oh how he hates to play by Moriarty’s rules. If he has to go down, at least he wants to do it on his own terms. After all, most rules are bendable, most games winnable. There are still turns he can take, ways he can escape, this is not the endgame yet. 

There are still a lot of things the detective doesn't know, many variables he cannot control. He can't see all the moves yet, can't anticipate every turn of his erratic opponent. He doesn't know what is going to happen, or how to proceed. Not exactly, no. 

_ "How hard do you find it, having to say "I don't know"?" _

The question seems to float in the air, as if Moriarty's malign presence still lingered in the flat.

Sherlock pushes it down, setting his sights on the here and now. The only certainty is that he must escape from getting caught, avoid being burnt. Must follow the madman's advice and run run run like the gingerbread man on the table. 

Where it all leads is a different matter, the following scenarios ranging from moderately dangerous to fatal. But nobody will be safe unless Moriarty’s global network is fully destroyed. There is only one thing that can be done: keep playing. Unwavering, Sherlock turns to face Lestrade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in the episode The Reichenbach Fall where Sherlock leaves Baker Street for the last time has always touched and haunted me. There’s something in the way Sherlock ties on his scarf that absolutely breaks my heart. I've wanted to write a story around it for a very long time. Unexpectedly, reading the fic In his care by BeautifulFiction gave me the inspiration to link the scene with the current pandemic. 
> 
> I'm also indebted to Ariane deVere for her invaluable Sherlock transcripts. I've used them to get the arresting scene right.


	3. 25th March, 2020: Alone is what I have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: I use the word "exile" here to refer to the time after The Fall, the two years Sherlock was away. I chose it instead of "hiatus" because it fits better with the pandemic vocabulary. And it’s not about the exile after Magnussen, as the events from "His Last Vow" onwards never happened in this universe.
> 
> So now, have some "My brother has the mind of a philosopher" type of musings!

_ "No man ever steps into the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." _

\- Heraclitus - 

* * *

The flat fell silent once more. Swallowing the sense of unease, Sherlock returned to the kitchen. Absent-mindedly, he moved around, carefully unpacking his grocery bags and wiping each package with Clorox wipes before filling the fridge and the cupboards. Then he, who'd only ever made a mess of the kitchen, thoroughly cleaned and disinfected all the kitchen counters and door handles, like John had advised. Who could have seen it coming? 

Finally, he washed his hands with warm water and soap, counting the seconds while he rubbed them. Again. Mary had taught Rosie a hand washing song when this madness began and she had proudly shown it to her godfather. After that, Sherlock hadn’t been able to wash his hands without hearing Rosie’s clear voice singing in his head: _Twinkle, twinkle little star, look how clean my two hands are._ _Soap and water, wash and scrub, get those germs off rub-a-dub..._

The memory made him smile, even if it was the last time Rosie had visited him.

When Sherlock was done, he poured fresh water in the kettle and clicked it on. After a while, he sat brooding in his armchair with a teacup steaming next to him. So, here he was, locked in like the rest of the UK, and most of Europe, too.

SARS-CoV-2. One infinitesimal coronavirus and the whole world had come crashing down around their ears. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the cure so that they could continue their former lives again. But it would be a long road to an efficient Covid-19 vaccine, if such a thing was even possible.  _ No one will be safe until everyone is safe.  _ Waiting for this nightmare to end wasn't going to take another two years off his life, was it? 

It didn't take a Holmes to deduce that they were on the threshold of life-altering, historic times. But something about it felt personal, too, on a level he couldn't quite explain. He hated this, the abrupt turn of events, the familiar dread pooling in the pit of his belly and whispering  _ I've been here before _ and  _ not again _ , the sense of sliding towards a certain disaster, feeling it all slipping through his fingers. He kept having these flashbacks, a hint of  _ déj _ _ à  _ _ vu _ , throwing him nine years into the past.

Back then, nobody had asked him if he was willing to give up his life in order to beat Moriarty. It was something that had been imposed on him, in the end. The rolling events forcing his hand and taking control. That was oddly similar to how he felt about the pandemic, too. In both cases, they had underestimated the threat and it had taken them by surprise. There had been very little time to adjust, barely enough to wrap their heads around what was happening. 

The game he had played with Moriarty had been risky and he had stood to lose it all. But it had still been a  _ game _ with rules and a chance, however slim, of winning. Like he had thought back then, most games were winnable, if you were smart (or lucky) enough. But how did you outsmart a virus? How did you outrun a year turned awful? There were no rules to this predicament and he had no cards up his sleeve this time. 

This wasn't a game. No, it was a bloody marathon and he felt breathless at the starting line. Nobody knew how long the race was going to be, how far they would have to stretch the rubber band of their resilience. And, Sherlock thought bitterly, even if coronaviruses couldn't play, the whole human race was now pawns in their game, helpless against the common enemy.

Then, like now, there really was no other way out, no other option than to go through it, with no certain guarantee of the outcome. But this time, the choice wasn't  _ his  _ alone. The struggle wasn't his alone. A pandemic wasn't a one-man mission. 

Now the whole world was in the same boat, holding its breath with him. He and his friends weren’t the only ones whose lives had been upended. Now everyone faced the same fear, shared the same danger.

Somehow, it didn't make him feel any less alone. 

Despite the familiar sound of sirens outside, no one was barging in, this time. No angry feet trotting up the stairs, apart from his own. There was no Mrs. Hudson meeting the intruders at the door and calling for manners. She had fled London before the lockdown and was now self-isolating at her sister's out of the city. 

_ "Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall." _

Perhaps it had. Nothing was right in the world anymore. The unthinkable had happened. 

But Sherlock understood even without her guidance that 'manners', in this situation, meant staying in for the greater good. Scientifically, he understood why it was needed and didn't question it. Only, it would have been so much easier to bear if John still lived here. If his only company wasn't a mask-clad skull grinning on the mantelpiece. 

"Oh don't be so dramatic, brother mine. I don't see how social isolation should be a problem to you. Didn't you spend two years on the run perfecting the art we started in childhood?" Mycroft had asked him on the phone a week ago. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother had a point. No one could call Sherlock Holmes a people person and usually he didn't mind being in his own company. He had lived alone in Baker Street for seven years now. He was used to not having John around all the time anymore. John who had a life of his own with Mary and Rosie. So how was this any different from his usual lonely existence? 

Sherlock didn't have many friends but now, being told that he wasn't  _ allowed  _ to meet the few that he had, something in him rebelled. It was strange. But the detective had learned his lesson: the Fall had shown him the true value of his friends and it felt unfair to be separated from them again. At this point, he would have preferred even Mrs. Hudson’s chattering to this silence.

Perhaps he  _ was _ overreacting a bit, though. Being alone now didn’t mean that he was  _ completely _ on his own, like he had been during the exile. After all, he didn't have to hide his existence from John and his other friends, didn't have to stay out of touch for years. And yet, not being able to meet them, except on the phone and online, was bad enough. No amount of video calls could alleviate the loneliness, the acute sense of loss. Becoming a recluse hadn’t been his own choice. 

And how would Mycroft know anyway? Sherlock could never expect him to understand as he had no friends. The one good thing about social distancing, though, was that the bureaucrat himself only called instead of visiting these days. For him, it seemed to be the perfect excuse to steer clear of all the goldfish out there. 

Apparently including his little brother.

* * *

The evening was growing darker by the minute outside but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to get up off his armchair to switch on the lights. Instead, he sipped his cooling tea and kept on musing in the twilight. The only sounds in the flat were the restless staccato of fingers drumming against the side of a tea mug and the shuffle of a trouser leg jiggling against the other.

After the Fall, Sherlock was able to travel around the world but couldn't return home because it was too dangerous.

_ I couldn't see anybody because I was dead _ . 

Now he couldn't travel anywhere and wasn't allowed to  _ leave _ home for the same reason.

_ I can't see anybody or I might end up dead. _

It seemed like history was repeating itself in a bizarre, inverted way. Was there really that much difference between exile and quarantine, after all? Both were means of the last resort, used when everything else failed. Both disrupted your normal life and made you live in the limbo. 

Six feet under or six feet apart. Whether he was a phantom, running around the globe undercover while his friends mourned him or being cooped up here in lockdown, it all boiled down to that same old fact: alone is what I have.  " _ Alone protects me."  _ Those had been his last words to John in St. Bart's hospital lab before the Fall. Although a ruse at the time, it had also been the truth and a hint of his intentions: I have to do this on my own.

Unfortunately, his words still sounded like a prophecy in 2020. How he wished they didn't. 

To make it worse, he  _ knew _ what it meant. Being in total isolation. Cut off from reality. Unmoored, unhinged, homeless. He still remembered what it felt like to be so far removed from the life he had loved that it became a detached memory, almost unreal.

The Fall had locked Sherlock out of the place he called home, staying the stopwatch of his existence. While his friends had continued their lives, his had become a parallel reality. Although he had managed to come home, he hadn't been able to slot back into the space he’d left, not  _ entirely _ . The places, the people and the time had all moved on during his absence. Nor was Sherlock himself the same, re-shaped by the harsh years in exile.

Now nobody had moved but the world around them had shifted. This new virus had locked them all in place but exiled them from  _ time _ . The pandemic had taken it from their hands and warped it into something surreal, unrecognizable. As the past had suddenly become inaccessible and the future an uncertainty, they could only focus on the here and now. This time, they all shared the parallel reality of the pandemic.

During the two years he was away, he had sometimes missed his old life so much it hurt. Leaving had separated his life into Before and After. He wondered if living this new normal would make them feel the same way. 

* * *

It was hard to remember what he had thought when the exile started. How optimistic he had been, thinking it wouldn't be long before he returned. That things would somehow magically stay the same. In hindsight, he should have been more terrified. 

Those two years had changed his life forever. Sherlock had given up so much to keep John and his other friends safe, living that un-life for so long. He had survived the ordeal but it had left him shaken and scarred, robbing him of two years that he would never ever get back. The Fall had ripped his life apart and putting the puzzle back together had proved impossible. The picture wasn’t whole anymore, as the most important piece had gone missing: he had lost John to Mary while he was away. 

That had been the biggest sacrifice of all: to bury the fragile hope and the dreams of John that had kept him alive while he was dead. This wasn’t something the detective admitted even to himself, but that didn’t make it any less true. When he returned to a home that was no longer  _ theirs _ , he had to adapt to a new state of being, a new mode of living. To get used to being alone, permanently. 

Now, all lives had changed, everyone was forced to make sacrifices, everyone had to adjust. Sherlock wasn’t the only one to suffer. He shuddered to think about the repercussions there could be this time: how much would they all lose before it was over? Hadn’t he already lost enough?

So far, little in his life had changed on the outside. Being home alone could hardly be considered a hardship. Compared to his past experiences, it should have been a trifling matter, not worth complaining about. How difficult could it be, sitting on the sofa? 

Rationally, logically, he should have been fine. If he had endured two years of hell, getting through a few weeks in lockdown should be a walk in the park. He should have learned to tolerate uncertainty by now. 

But he was not okay. This time, he didn't feel calm at all. Facing the situation filled him with nervous, rebellious energy. They said that opportunities for reinvention or great changes occurred in people’s lives in seven year cycles. It was exactly seven years from the latest upheaval in his life but this was not the kind of change that he was ready to embrace. The returnee in him resisted it, refusing to accept that his life had been taken from his hands again. He hadn’t wanted it back then, didn’t want it now. But nobody ever asked him what he wanted anyway. 

The story of his life. These things kept happening, inevitably, out of control. Whenever he thought he couldn’t become any lonelier, it managed to get even worse. Whether by choice or by force, it always ended up like this. Apart, bereft. Back to square one.

After The Fall, he had embraced loneliness as his armour. He put up with it, as long as it kept John and himself protected. He wasn't willing to bear it anymore. Getting his life back and relearning to live it had been the hardest thing he had ever done. He didn’t deserve to be blocked out of it again. He had spent the years after his return trying to make up for the lost time. Even if he couldn’t always be with John, he didn’t have to be  _ without _ him _ ,  _ either. He had finally found some semblance of order, a way to preserve their friendship even after John's marriage. 

Now, the chance to lead a normal life, the freedom to be with his friends had been stolen from him again. It felt like a cruel, recurring joke that he didn't get.

Perhaps sitting on the sofa was his only sacrifice this time, but it was starting to look a lot like solitary confinement. There were no chains or shackles here, this wasn't a cell in Serbia. But he was a prisoner anyway, forcibly confined in a secure place. That's what ‘lockdown’ originally implied, didn't it? Imprisoned in his own home, alone for his own safety. This was a different form of torture but torture all the same. Being locked in with his own worst enemy - himself.


	4. 25th March, 2020: Doom scrolling

* * *

" **Exile**

**It takes your mind**

**Again**

**Does it feel like a trial**

**Now you're thinking too fast, you're like marbles on glass.** "

**\- The National: Exile vilify -**

* * *

Sherlock was startled by distant aircraft noise, somewhere high up above him.

_ A plane _ ? _ Now? Curious. _

For a long time after his return, the sound of passing planes had sent him back, as if leaving for exile on every airplane he heard, his life balancing on their wings. Now, it was a reminder of a world that had suddenly disappeared, like the crisscrossing jet plane skies.

It had become dark outside and the room looked eerie in the glow of the street lamps. The tired man got up from his armchair and stretched like a cat in eternal lockdown. He walked to the sofa, turned on the small lamp on the side table and picked up the phone that was lying discarded next to the lamp. The screen was empty, apart from the usual news alerts.

_ No messages _ .  _ No calls. Well, who would need me anyway?  _

Perhaps that was part of the problem. For the first time in years, the detective had absolutely no idea what to do. The fact was that there  _ was  _ nothing for him to do, except wait. Nobody needed him right now. It felt almost as if he had ceased to exist again, slipping back to the wrong side of life.

"What's wrong with working remotely? I'm sure you are looking forward to traumatizing more clients by attending Zoom meetings with nothing but a sheet on," Mycroft had said on the phone when he had called yesterday, downplaying his anxiety. Well, he could talk. Mycroft, the lucky bastard, was so busy dealing with both the Brexit mess and the pandemic that he had no time to contemplate his lousy existence. Sherlock was certain his brother was secretly pleased about the current state of things, in his 'never let a good crisis go to waste' opportunism. And he finally had a valid excuse to avoid legwork. 

Mycroft had even offered to find his brother "some unimportant government work" if the worst came to the worst. Sherlock had told him to piss off.

The nosy git knew, of course, that DI Lestrade had called the detective a few days ago with "sincere apologies", only to announce that crime scenes were now off limits. As the pandemic spread, everyone tried to cut down on unnecessary contacts and as an outsider, Sherlock was the first to go. They might consult him online, if they really needed to, but for Sherlock, not being allowed to the crime scenes except remotely was a pale imitation of the real thing. And despite what Mycroft thought, there were no cases looming on the horizon anyway, as the pandemic seemed to have swept most of London's criminals in its wake, making the crime rates plummet. 

Lestrade had seemed genuinely sorry about the fact that there weren't enough crimes in London. He had suggested that instead of being a consulting detective, Sherlock could perhaps become a net detective, "CSI Bellingcat", wouldn't that be right up his street? Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was meant as a joke or not. Lestrade had also promised to send him some cold case files, as compensation. Sherlock hadn’t heard from him since. The DI had probably forgotten the whole thing already. 

Molly had also called Sherlock to say that he should stay away from the lab for the time being, as a safety precaution. She had been even worse than Lestrade, apologizing profusely as if she was personally responsible for denying Sherlock the access. She had finally managed to add that he wouldn’t be getting any more samples from her either, owing to stricter infection prevention protocols. The phone call had ended with Molly close to tears and Sherlock clumsily reassuring  _ her _ that it was all fine, that he understood and that the situation was not her fault and almost wanting to apologize that he had ever gone to the lab in the first place.

This time, there was nothing Molly could do for him. But Sherlock knew that Molly’s stress levels were high enough without him causing a fuss. Because even if killers were now in quarantine, the pandemic ensured a steady flow of cadavers to the morgue and Molly herself was positively flooded with work. Morbidly, Sherlock envied her for it.

He flopped down on the sofa and tried to immerse himself in his mobile phone. Maybe there would be something interesting on his website?

The detective's only hope was to get private cases. But with the strict lockdown rules, investigating and interviewing people would be very difficult. And even if his own digital skills were up to date, the same couldn’t be said of his clients. Most of them were paranoid enough even without the pandemic. Arranging cyber-risky Zoom meetings with them and making the digital leap just wasn’t going to happen. People needed to have private, secure talks with him, face to face. As it was, very few potential clients seemed willing to be in close contact these days, too terrified to interact with people outside their inner circle. 

The months leading up to the pandemic had been extremely busy for the detective. He had worked on several high profile cases almost nonstop around the clock. It had all come to an abrupt stop in the middle of March and he had hit the brick wall running. Now his inbox was completely empty.

_ Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.  _

His two years of exile might have been hell, but at least it was an  _ active _ kind of hell. Being the busy little bee that he had been, his every waking hour was filled with something to do: new plans needed to be made, tasks carried out. Even if it sometimes required lying low or in wait, there was always a sense of purpose and urgency behind it. Those years had been dangerous and demanding but also intellectually stimulating. Now there was nothing but this mind-numbing idleness. 

No crime scenes, no morgues and almost no clients. One by one, his options (and his world) seemed to be shrinking. It looked like social distancing would be the death of him. The pandemic isolated him not just socially but also professionally. Most of his friends had their jobs  _ and  _ their families to keep them afloat. Sherlock had neither. He was collateral damage, the new void in his life a by-product of the pandemic. Even if he was safe at home, the boredom would surely kill him sooner than the virus.

  
  


* * *

The worst part was that even if a proper case magically appeared and they would be allowed to the crime scene, John wouldn't be able to accompany him, as he was up to his elbows in work, too. 

It was sometimes hard to remember that John was not just his blogger but first and foremost a doctor, a  _ very good  _ doctor, and sorely needed in times like these. Hospitals were short of staff and desperate to get professional volunteers to survive the deluge of Covid-19 patients. John's wartime RAMC experience and nerves of steel had earned him a recruitment at the Royal London, one of the frontline hospitals. 

John was in his element, putting his life on the line every day in the epicentre of action, where he longed to be. Working under pressure and saving lives, as much as anyone could. Sherlock knew how much John enjoyed the heady mixture of danger and usefulness and was very proud of him. But, it also highlighted the uselessness of Sherlock's own part in the pandemic.

As hard as it was to admit, this wasn't his war to wage, not his time to be the hero (as if he had ever been one). There was no fairytale villain for him to beat, he was not the protagonist of this story. That battle was reserved for people like John and Mary, for all the doctors and nurses and other healthcare workers on the Covid-19 front lines. His only role was to stay out of the way and let them do their job. 

During the exile, Sherlock had been the one who was trying to keep John safe from harm, destroying a worldwide threat. Now, their roles had been reversed. It was John's turn to fight by trying to suppress a global enemy. Just like on the day of Sherlock's arrest, John was out there, meeting the intruders halfway, blocking and protecting.

Sherlock wasn't overly concerned about his own safety or health. He was still relatively young and didn't belong to any high risk groups. Even if he did lose his life, it wouldn't be him who'd miss it, so why should he care? 

But John, John was another matter. Sherlock just couldn't shake off the feeling of dread concerning his best friend. Several doctors, nurses and GPs had already lost their lives to the new virus around the world. The knowledge made him uneasy, forming a tight knot of anxiety in his stomach. Every time he read a piece of news on the subject, he imagined John in his scrubs and masks and battle gear, and the knot of fear squeezed a little harder. 

Sherlock hated the fact that, once again, John’s life was at risk. He understood that John was only doing what needed to be done but he hated it all the same, the fact that he had to be  _ there _ , on the front lines, at all. But if John had known where Sherlock was when he was dead, would he have felt the same? Would the doctor have disliked Sherlock’s involvement as vehemently as Sherlock disliked his now? 

It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault this time but losing John would still burn the heart out of him. He could only hope John would remain unharmed through it all.

And if he didn’t? What could Sherlock possibly do about it? Suck it up or swallow it down. Like any other thing he couldn't help ( _ like faking my suicide to save my friends - like John getting married to Mary - like stopping this bloody pandemic - like John getting Covid-19 and dying --  _ )

Block. Block. Block. Compartmentalize. Focus on the present. Keep going. Don't think. 

_ Everything will be fine. John will be fine. _

_ Just stop this. (How do I stop this?) _

Sherlock turned on the TV to drown out the mute desperation in the flat. The continuous stream of breaking news faded to the background as he kept swiping on his phone simultaneously. An hour later, he was still lost in the maze of numbers, figures and grim predictions, his head bursting with the data. Scrolling from site to site and scrabbling for the scraps of information did nothing to allay his fears but he needed to know what John was up against. 

Besides, tearing his gaze away from the news was like resisting the pull of a magnet. Body bags and black cars, row after row of coffins, people looking like characters from dystopian science fiction films, overwhelmed doctors and nurses pleading with people to stay at home -

( _ they all had John and Mary's faces, each and every one of them _ ) 

Patients on gurneys, patients on ventilators, patients gasping for breath, panic chaos death… 

_ This couldn’t be happening, could it?  _

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. He turned off the TV, threw his phone on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t bear to see or hear another sentence starting with Covid-19. It was better to pretend this wasn't real. Everything felt like a movie or a bad dream, anyway, as if the bodies could magically disappear when the movie ended or he woke up the next day.  _ This will be over tomorrow. _

* * *

The detective spent the rest of the evening pacing his living room like a caged lion, wearing the eight of infinity on the floorboards around their armchairs. For the first time in years, he was adrift. It had taken a long time to get back to solid ground and now (without the structures and routines of his normal life), he was falling again. This was his home, but it felt like a foreign land and he was unable to find his footing here. He wasn’t familiar with  _ this _ world: everything looked the same but nothing really was. He hadn’t felt like this since his return and that, more than anything, unsettled him. The coronavirus was another crack in his lens and it made everything unclear. He simply couldn't  _ see  _ how to go forward from here. 

The pandemic wasn’t a case, not a problem for him to solve. He wouldn't be able to think his way out of it this time.... And yet, he couldn't stop his brain from trying, his marbles-on-glass mind making him trip on his thoughts. If only he hadn't blown his chances when he was younger, he could have been in Oxford now, helping to find the cure. But his massive intellect was of no use here: despite being an excellent chemist, he couldn't even become a vaccine developer because of his junkie past. 

So, there was absolutely no need to think, no way to help. Except by staying where he was.

" _ It’s so boring, isn’t it. It’s just staaaayyyying, _ " a familiar voice drawled in his head. It was no use telling his brain that this  _ staying _ had a purpose, that he was  _ flattening the corona curve  _ and  _ protecting the NHS _ . 

( _ Protecting John - _ )

But as long as he wasn't actively  _ doing _ anything, his brain stayed bored. Like Moriarty, he desperately needed a distraction. He felt like running to his room to get his gun and taking it out on the living room wall for the want of a better target. The Smiley could finally wipe that smug smile off its face.

God, he needed a  _ cigarette _ . No. John would kill him. Nicotine patches? Did he have any left at the flat? Didn't think so. Why, why, why hadn't he bought some when he was shopping? 

No. NO - he had given up smoking. Those things would kill him. They were bad for the lungs even without Covid. And he had promised John he would not start it again now, with or without the patches.

Sherlock had a sudden urge to flee the flat screaming. He wished John could join him, like he had done when the detective had been arrested. Better yet, he wanted to run to John, take his hand and drag him somewhere safe, away from it all. But there would be no daring escape from this together. 

He knew he could easily slip out and roam the streets of London for hours on end without ever being detected on CCTV or being caught by the police. But what good would it do? Even if they left, there was nowhere to go as a fugitive, as the whole planet was cuffed together by its microscopic opponent. 

Everyone was forced into their tiny social bubbles, forging on alone. If only he had spent more time with John before their world turned upside down.

It seemed like there was nothing else for him to do now but sit on the sidelines and keep doom scrolling. Forced to inaction. Useless and helpless. Absolutely intolerable. 

He couldn't take this any longer. But running away was impossible, burying himself into the screens ineffective. And cowering in his mind palace would be… well, just cowering. It was all so depressing that he almost considered dialling one of the old contacts on his phone. 

Promises be damned. Just one tap of his finger and he could find a way out of this misery. He wouldn’t even have to bother with a bolt hole, as no one else was around anyway. No one interfering, no one caring about what he was doing. 

_ Easy-peasy _ . 

The skull poster smiled pityingly at him on the opposite wall. 

_ Just grin and bear it _ . __

_ You can't escape this.  _

_ The only way out is not to go in but through. _

Exasperated, Sherlock grabbed the masked skull from the mantelpiece and hurled it across the living room, lashing out at the object closest to a human being and the one that most reminded him of the tragedy going on outside. It bounced against the sofa and disappeared somewhere between the cushions, joining the hide-and-seek with his phone. 

_ Too pathetic, too soon. _

The lockdown hadn't even properly started yet and here he was, on the brink of a relapse. The future yawned in front of him like an abyss, dark and forbidding. How was he ever going to last this month of Sundays without going mad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Sherlock reacts to the upheaval in his life by going through the first four stages of grief in an effective, fast-forward way (though not necessarily in that order). Did you spot all the stages while reading?

**Author's Note:**

> This started with a small insight which surprisingly avalanched into a full story.  
> There will be six chapters and I will be posting them about once a week.


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